He closes the door and lingers, as if letting go might undo what they had just briefly reclaimed. As if stepping away might push her further into the dark.
"It is... bittersweet," he says, voice low and raw around the edges. He's staring at the floor at first, but then his gaze shifts to theclosed door . "Like something beautiful happened, but I can't hold onto it. Like it slipped through my fingers the moment I tried to keep it."
His hands are loosely clasped , thumbs fidgeting, restless with feeling.
"But still... I'm grateful," he smiles and adds, softer now. "Tonight was amazing. It really was. I never thought I'd get something like that back, not even for a second. Thank you—for being there. For capturing it. For... everything."
"Well," I say eventually, a teasing smile curling at the corners of my lips, "maybe tonight can still get a little more amazing."
He turns to look at me, surprised, eyebrows raised. "Oh yeah?" he says, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "Why's that?"
I lean in just a little, my voice playful but warm, my eyes catching the low light. "Take me to your house,Moonboy."
There's a pause—just a beat—where he processes the words, and then a slow, crooked smirk spreads across his face. It starts tentative, like he's remembering how to smile not out of politeness, but out ofwantingto. That familiar twinkle flickers back into his eyes. Less sorrow now, more mischief. More life.
"Oh... Yes, ma'am," he says, grinning now, "Let's follow the stars," then glances over his shoulder with a gleam in his eye. "You'll understand soon enough why Superman has always been my favorite hero."
I laugh—an honest, surprised kind of laugh that bubbles up before I can stop it. "What?" I ask, amused. "Is this your way of telling me you secretly wear a cape under your clothes?"
He just shrugs, his smirk deepening. "You'll see."
And just like that, the grief of the evening doesn't vanish—but it softens. We walk side by side down the hallway, not rushing, not running. Just moving forward. Somewhere between sorrow and hope, between memory and new beginnings.
To everyone living with Alzheimer's, and to those who love and care for someone who is—your strength, patience, and love are nothing short of heroic. This chapter is for you. Much love!
Chapter Twenty-One: Skin and Stars
His hand doesn't leave mine the whole way back. The night air is quiet, humming with possibility, and something in his silence feels different now, like calm before a very deliberate kind of storm.
When we reach his house, I'm surprised by howwarmit feels. The outside is modest, nothing flashy, but once we step in, it's like stepping into another universe.
The living room is a quiet dream, warm and full of thought. Deep blue walls wrap around us like dusk, kissed by the soft amber glow of scattered lamps. A low couch stretches along one side, draped in textured throws and pillows that invite touch. The fireplace crackles faintly behind its iron grate, the last of its embers sighing into the stillness.
But it's the shelves that stop me. They rise floor to ceiling, a tapestry of Liam's mind. Leather-bound astronomy logs. Dog-eared paperbacks with margins filled in pencil. Charts of forgotten constellations. Tiny planetary models suspended from the ceiling by nearly invisible threads, swaying slightly in the warm air. Every surface whispers of the cosmos. Wonder. Obsession. Solitude.
Above his desk, framed in minimalist black, is a photograph of thePillars of Creation—a cradle of stars, frozen in time and light. This isn't just where he lives. It's where he dreams. A sanctuary. A love letter to the stars—and maybe, I think, to the parts of himself he never quite says aloud.
I turn slowly, drawn back to him. Liam leans against the far wall, eyes on me. Silent. Still. There's no smile now. No joking or nervous fidgeting like earlier. Just that focus—fierce, unwavering. Like I'm the only thing in the room not yet cataloged, not yet studied. My breath stutters.
"You want a drink? Coffee?" he asks, his voice low, casual, but laced with something deeper.
I shake my head. "No," I murmur. "I'm good."
His lips twitch at the corners. Not a smile—no, it's darker than that. A flicker of something more deliberate. A promise.
"Good," he says, taking a step toward me. "I want you clear. I want you to rememberallof this."
The way he says it—low, slow, with an edge that sends heat cascading down my spine—it's not a question, not even a request. It's a declaration. A shift in gravity. He walks past me, brushing so close his fingers graze the fabric at my waist, and the contact is so subtle, it burns. He stops at the threshold of the hallway and glances back once.
"You coming?"
His voice isn't playful now. It's quiet, but absolute. The kind of tone you follow. I do. He leads me to his bedroom. And it's just as stunning as the rest of the house. Walls the color of deep twilight seem to hum with silence, wrapping the room in a soft, endless hush. The ceiling above glows with scattered constellations—tiny lights painted and placed with care, forming familiar patterns in the dark. Like a sky he built for himself.
The shelves are cluttered, but not messy—each item carefully placed. Fragments of meteorites glint softly under glass. A star atlas lies open, pages worn from use. Tiny planets float inside bell jars, suspended in time and light. Every corner of the room whispers devotion, to the cosmos, to knowledge, to wonder.
The bed is large and perfectly made—navy sheets smooth and taut, a thick quilt folded with precision at the foot, patterned like a galaxy mid-spiral.
But I hardly notice the bed. Because all I can feel ishim. Liam stands close behind me. I feel the heat of his body before I feelhis touch, his fingers brushing lightly against my wrist, barely there, but enough to spark every nerve awake.
